Expectation
by Rachelle Lo
Summary: And if he were innocent, what of it?


**Summary: **And if he were innocent, what of it?

**Genre**: Tragedy/Angst

**Prompt: **This is a response to the theories that Loki was, in fact, mind-controlled and not in control of his actions. I like the theory, but...

**Music: **Run by Ludovico Einaudi.

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Expectation

_by Rachelle_Lo_

* * *

And if he were innocent, what of it?

He stared at them through the little fish-eye cameras. Could they not see it? Look at me. _Look at me._ His eyes were green. Not smalt-blue.

They would never see it, because the heroes did not want to.

How easy: to create a monster. To chew up hear-say and feast on appearance and spit prejudice over the dripping pile.

If he were innocent, what of it?

He was Loki. He had never been innocent, even since his birth. Abandoned in the cold for some forgotten congenital crime. Lied to (protected from) the crime of his blood. Tiny and deformed among monsters; unnatural, maleficent, simpering among gods.

(A craven, screaming foreign wretch among the alien.)

The glass spattered shreds of his reflection around the cell: a white, stretched carcass jaw on that wall; a clownish red smile licking that one; a shredded set of flickering eyes on the floor, on the roof; a fluid, womanly body, cringing, lashing, sweeping on every glass pane.

Thor, Thor, Thor, Thor.

_This is what you've always seen, isn't it? I see it too. I had chosen not to, before, but now I see._

Things that go bump in the night.

His fist crashed into the glass, and it did, indeed, go bump. The cell shuddered and threatened to drop in the ocean.

If he were, legally speaking, innocent of this one crime, what of it? Many other crimes clamored for his name. None so impressive and audacious as conquering a planet, perhaps, but planetary genocide was a nice title, was it not? Might as well add 'would-be conquerer' to the register.

He hit the glass again. Mortals were yelling, telling him to stand down, stop.

Laughter echoed through the cell. Hysteria bubbled in his chest. Loki scratched the glass, the cell swinging crazily, and he laughed.

_(The humans think us immortal. Shall we—?)_

What of it?

He was screaming, positively giggling death threats in the Old Tongue, switching languages every few words, pleading, begging, slurring, graphic descriptions of torture dribbling over his lips, washing into the air, and oh, look, there were some Avengers, world's only heroes, and some flailing commotion, and a hissing pop as the cell opened—

He was still screaming when Thor forced the muzzle onto his mouth.

The Thunderer said something, but Loki was focused on his eyes, not his mouth. _Can you not see it? My eyes are green._

No recognition in Thor's eyes, no dawning realization, no familiarity.

Loki thrashed and thrashed in Thor's grip, shrieking until the sharp metal corners bit his tongue.

Of course not.

You expect this, don't you?

_(I never wanted the throne, only—the Warriors Three and Sif had treated his crowning as a usurpation—had expected him to gloat—)_

_(—this is madness—)_

_(—is it—is it?)_

Loki sucked on the gag, tasting copper. He relaxed his hands in Thor's grip (see? all safe), and when Thor cautiously released him, set his hands demurely in his lap. See? So well-behaved.

Thor said something not worth remembering, then left after a few moments of righteously staring at Loki, likely satisfied he wouldn't try to kill himself again. Suicide twice. Loki, for his part, gave a docile smile.

And if he were innocent, what of it? No one would see. No one would want to. Aesir and human alike experienced an initial impression to stimuli, connected to past impressions, and formed a personality mold. In this case: monster. How easy.

_If that's what you want,_ Loki thought, fingering the muzzle. _I'll answer your prayers._

* * *

_Thor had a hand on his elbow, guiding him to the point they would depart with the Tessaract. Barton smiled as Romanoff whispered in his ear._

_Loki stood tall. No more chances. They hadn't seen. Crafted a beautiful monster. It was what they wanted, in their deepest of hearts. A foe to defeat, a wall to push against._

_If he were innocent, what of it?_

_He would make them__ beg for a time he was puppet-conquerer._


End file.
